Chiaroscuro
by Miranda Crystal-Bearer
Summary: AU drabbles for the Cal Leandros novels. Shades of light and dark and of all flavors, from humor to horror.
1. Passing

**A/N: **I do not own The Cal Leandros novels. They belong to Rob Thurman. All kudos to her.

I was hesitant to post this, as it is pure conjecture on my part. But then I decided it's fan-fiction; I might as well toss in a little made-up fun.

As for the same last name...maybe they were cousins. :| (It happens. Some people aren't so picky.) Or briefly married. I don't know. You can decide.

**Well, this has become a blatantly AU piece...**

**So I decided to put it here instead, and its sister chapter, so everything is all organized.**

* * *

When Niko stopped and stared at the newspaper on the bar, I knew something was up. Even moreso when he picked it up, pulled a page out, and folded it up to stash it in his coat pocket. All this mid-meeting with Robin and Promise about a client who wanted their garden cleared of gnomes. Robin blinked, Promised raised an eyebrow, but Niko slid right back into the discussion as if it hadn't even happened. So we all said nothing, and we went on with the meeting, arranged dates to talk to the client, so on, so forth.

I, however, had the perfect opportunity to corner him later, when he pulled the paper out of his pocket and snipped an article out of it. I almost teased him about coupon-clipping, but then I read the bold black lettering on the top: '**Obituaries**.' Not coupons for tofu, then.

"Nik?"

Niko glanced up at me, then silently passed me the clipping. For a moment I read it as 'Niko Leandros' and my heart damn near stopped. Then I realized it wasn't Niko's name, but a 'Nikolas.' It was a short terse entry, born this day, died this day, left behind family, yadda yadda. I looked up at him, puzzled. "Leandros. Any relation?"

Niko took the clipping back, newspaper ink staining his calloused fingertips. "Yes. My father."

For a moment I felt sucker-punched. I didn't know what to say. "How do you know?"

"Nikolas." Niko smiled faintly. "He called me 'little Niko.' He had an older son, Bethos."

That was...a lot more than I'd known. Niko had only said he'd met his father twice, and hadn't said any more. I'd figured it hadn't been a good relationship. Our relationship with Sophia certainly hadn't been. "So you've got another brother out there?" That gave me an unsettled feeling.

"No. I only have one brother."

Niko smiled at me and got to his feet. I followed him down the hall and into his room. He opened a dresser drawer, and took out an old shoebox. I recognized that box; it had traveled with us for a long time. It had a few pictures in it, some assorted crafts I'd made, a shiny pebble I'd once given to him, a stack of letters rewarding Niko's academic excellence, and several certificates of various importance, from college degrees to martial arts awards. All of Niko's life mostly unrelated to me fit in one shabby cardboard box, from back when they'd made shoe boxes to last forever.

He rifled through the box with expert fingers, not disturbing the stack in the least, and withdrew a single photo. He held it out to me.

I took it, curiously. It was an old Polaroid, faded so red and browns stood out more than the blue sky. It showed a blonde man sitting on the steps of an RV. His hair was in a long ponytail, his face was weathered olive-tanned, and he wore scarred leather workboots. Sitting at his feet was a blonde toddler holding onto a tiny baby with black hair. I blinked. The man - it was and wasn't Niko, and I knew then the child had to be Niko sitting there so gravely, not even smiling, holding me.

Niko took the photo back, paired it with the obituary, and put it away. "He wanted to take me from Sophia, but I wouldn't leave you. That was the last I saw of him."

"How old were you?" I asked, curiously.

"Five, I think," Niko answered, as he closed the box and put it away again.

Five years old, with a baby brother to take care of, and he'd stayed in hell with me. For a monster. I shook my head, and felt a little small. Humbled. "That settles it. Your priorities have always been screwed."

Niko chuckled. "That remains to be seen, little brother. I believe you left some dirty dishes in the sink..."

I grimaced. I didn't want to wash those, I'd been hoping he would.


	2. Knives

**A/N: **I do not own The Cal Leandros novels. They belong to Rob Thurman. All kudos to her.

I do own this random idea of Niko's father. The simplistic tone in this piece is because Niko's about 2-3 years old here. Thus this piece is pre-Cal! Have a look back at the past as we move on into a new year. :3

**This has also become blatantly AU...**

* * *

Sunshine bright and white-gold. The heat from the tarred-sticky telephone pole at your back. Summer mud between your bare toes and the rich green grass. Eyes closed, you know all this. Eyes open, you see it all, and the man in the scarred leather workboots across the yard.

The warning chirrup, the flick of hand, and you keep your eyes open.

You like to see the knives as they hiss through the air, glittering steel like stars in the daylight.

They snarl past you and thud into the pole at your back, biting deep with sharp shudders.

Silver knives and dark blonde ponytail, both snapping through the air in quick motions.

You try to count - they're so fast!

One, two, three...oh, but what about the ones already thrown? Um. You know he'll ask as soon as you're done.

And he throws the last one. How many? Oh! You know!

His workboots make a heavy sound as they pass over the grass. A calloused hand over your hair, warm with the sun, and you smile up at him. You were good! You didn't move and you weren't scared. And you know the answer.

"How many, little Niko?"

"Ten, Papa!"

A rough chuckle, and the hand ruffles your hair, pale like his. "Very good. Come now." His hand on your head draws you away, three big steps and six little ones. He crouches down, and he has a shiny silver knife. You hold your hands against your chest - no touching! It makes Papa mad. But he smiles now, in his blonde whiskers that are so scratchy against your face.

"One day you will throw the knives with me," he says, and grabs your small hand. He shapes chubby fingers, and you hold your breath in wonder as he places the hilt of the throwing knife in your hand. Cold against your palm. "Like this, little Niko. Hold it so to carry it. Point down."

You nod, watching, and curl your fingers tightly around the shiny metal. Hold it to carry it. Like Papa does, sometimes, before he makes the knives dance and glitter. They hiss through the air or make bright patterns and you like it best when he lets you watch. And now he's letting you touch it and you're so happy you can hardly stand still. Papa chuckles and touches your hair again.

"Now, careful, they are sharp. Hold it so, to throw. Hold soft," he says, larger fingers curving yours just right, and now you have it like he does to throw. With a smile, his hand still around yours, he moves your arm as if to throw it. "You will let go here. Now, show me."

You bounce just once, biting your lip, and take a deep breath like Papa does. All the way out, and then he throws!

The knife bounces to the grass, and you cry out in dismay. Oh no! Not like Papa's at all! You're doing it wrong, somehow! The knife didn't hiss through the air or thud into the pole. It didn't even go far.

But Papa chuckles again, and you look up wide-eyed. He is smiling. Didn't you get it wrong? "For a first try, that was good," he tells you. "It took me many years to do it right. You will get it right, too, little Niko. Just keep trying."

.

He was right. You throw knives just like he did.

Only you kill, where he merely performed.


	3. Strings and Rosin

**A/N:** I do not own the Cal Leandros series or any of its characters!

Totally non-canon. But such a delicious idea - one I liked so much I re-used it elsewhere...

Rosin is the resin of certain kinds of pine that is used on the bows of stringed instruments to make the hairs sticky and provide the right friction for the clearest and best sound. Rosin is more commonly known as a form of turpentine, or pitch.

* * *

The cello case had been one thing, picked up at a yardsale for the sole purpose of the axe. Cal knew that. But it had twanged a memory deep in his mind and he had mused on it for days that had turned into weeks that had morphed into months. And now, he was acting on it. The case tucked under his arm was much smaller, as he trotted down the street. He had no idea if this would be worth the trouble. But it was for Niko and hell, he'd give it a shot. Besides, even if it turned out wrong well at least they'd sit and talk about happier memories than they had lately. It was getting damn depressing in their house.

Cal left the case on Niko's bed, and promptly fell asleep on the couch.

He woke up to Niko's boot - minus Niko's foot, thankfully - flopping across his gut.

"Oof, the hell-?"

"What," Niko asked, mildly, "Is on my bed?"

"A boogey-trap," Cal answered with a yawn. "Go open it and see, genius."

Niko raised an eyebrow. "Where did you get it?"

"Promise found it, I dunno where she got it." Well, she'd found it because Cal had asked her to find it. Cal sat up and dumped the boot on the floor.

Niko gave Cal an unreadable look, before he turned and padded away on socked feet.

Cal counted to three, then got to his own feet and followed. He leaned in the doorway and watched as Niko sat on his bed. Slow hands reached out, touched the faux-leather case, and moved over the tarnished nickel buckles before flipping them open in a suddenly decisive move. Cal bit his lip to hide a grin.

Niko opened the case, and stared for a moment at the polished wood nestled in the red velvet case. Calloused fingertips drifted over the graining as reverently as any touch on one of his sacred blades. A deep breath, hands stilled, before Niko reached out and with gentle hands extracted the violin. Long fingers curled around the neck, touched over the strings, automatically falling into place. Niko tipped his head, and plucked at the strings. He cringed and reached up to tune first one, then another, smoothing the discordant sounds. He stared at the instrument in his lap when he was done, as if it were a riddle and might reveal its answer if he watched it long enough. Cal counted the time as beats of his heart, waiting.

Niko's right hand reached out, and scooped up the bow. In a sudden quick move Niko had the violin nestled under his chin, fingers poised.

The first five notes squeaked, as Niko ran up the scales, then down, hesitant sounds. Arpeggio, Cal suddenly recalled, remembering how hard he'd had to work to wrap his clumsy child's tongue around the word. Up the scale, down, and Niko paused, looking up. Grey eyes met and Niko sat very still. Cal smiled for him.

Niko smiled back, and as if it hadn't been over ten years, swept the bow over the strings and burst out into Mozart.

Cal remembered dimly the first music teacher in school who had also taught art and had fed them after school if only Niko would play an instrument and Cal would paint a picture. Cal's artistic talents had never developed much beyond stick figures, but Niko excelled in everything he set his hand to. And this was no exception - Niko had a true ear for tone and pitch, and had put in diligent hours of practise, going to school early and staying late. It had served the dual purpose of keeping away from Sophia as much as possible and ensuring a little extra sustenance.

Niko had persisted in music when he could, balancing Cal's needs against his own desires; ultimately he sacrificed his own wants on the altar of Cal's continued welfare. The violin had been dropped along the way; swords had instead become more important.

Cal felt a little guilty for it as he watched, listened. Niko's eyes were closed, lips just parted, and the violin in his hands sang with a voice nearly human. A stumbled note, a too-slow shift, and the faint dissatisfied twitch of Niko's brows showed the lack of practise. But somehow, Cal thought to himself, it was pretty much perfect anyway.


	4. No Longer Grey

**A/N: ** I do not own the Cal Leandros series, or any of the characters!

I had a bad day. I needed to relieve some stress. It's my habit to pick a character or two and kill them in horrible, awful ways while listening to loud rock music to blow off steam. Cal and Niko were the unfortunate victims this time. (So when I say to myself 'I gotta kill somebody' all my muses take off at a dead run to hide!)

* * *

Niko could say he'd never expected it to end like this.

Oh, he'd entertained some grim ending for them both, but this had not been one of them.

Then again, he thought distractedly, _who_ would expect to die like this?

Who on earth expected to die by slow inches, flesh ragged, lungs burning, blood dripping and every nerve pulsing blinding agony with every heartbeat?

Who expected to die betrayed and flayed and being perfectly, absolutely unable to hate the betrayer?

The knife that caressed his raw lungs was hot fire in his side. Niko couldn't actually see anything anymore, but he saw the slide of the knife against darkness like vivid lightning. His voice was raw and broke over the scream as steel gouged into bone. Oh he'd tried so hard not to make a sound, so hard, but somewhere along the way to dying he'd lost dignity and pride and all control. Niko wasn't sure where or when. Things were hazy, his world redefined by pain and a steady pulsing knowledge of death too close. Too close.

Laughter abraded his hearing like barbed jet-black claws, the monsters that were dead resurrected again in unholy life in a body not theirs. In a mind and soul that had never been meant for this, and the tears on Niko's face were not for himself or the blinding burning agony unfurled down every limb.

The tears were for the one who'd tried so hard and fought until the last.

Until grey eyes were no longer grey.

The knife gashed through his thigh, sliced hanging intestines and Niko screamed again, arching against the tree so hard he nearly knocked himself out against the rough bark. The handcuffs bit bloody into his wrists, and he could have stood on tiptoe but he'd lost that too, and he hung from bloody wrists like a kill for the gutting.

Something like a laugh burned in his throat - oh he was already gutted, mostly, and he still knew it, couldn't ignore it, couldn't see but only feel oh to not feel. He didn't want to feel - not his body and not his heart and not the throbbing grief.

Niko's broken shattered raw voice wrapped itself around the beloved name of the one he'd lost at last.

"Cal!"

This time the knife went through his heart, so hard and deep the blade went through him entirely and stuck fast in the tree behind him.

He couldn't even _scream_ for the pain, white-hot-blind-dissolving, he was dissolving into the agony oh...!

Grey eyes were no more, dead and blind and red and hungry.


	5. Amazon Mom

**A/N: **I do not own the Cal Leandros series, nor the characters!

Sooooo I blistered half the palm of my write hand and am reduced to typing only with my left... Boiling oil hurts, folks.

* * *

"Cal, come _on_, we are going to be late!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Cal paused in the hall, and blinked. "Nik, are you bleeding?"

"No, why would I-" Niki stood up from tying her boots, caught a sharp cramp in her abdomen, and winced as a familiar-but-not-welcome gushing sensation between her legs happened. She groaned, exasperated. "Yes. Give me a minute to go change pants."

"Aw, fuck, that's gross," Cal whined, nose wrinkled up. "Now every monster that can smell that is going to be trying to eat you...hey, wait, you're off-schedule again. Niki, you're not sick, are you?" Despite his declarations of gross, he followed her along to the bedroom door. Niki gathered up clean jeans and a fresh set of practical, boyshort underwear. She headed for the bathroom.

"No, I'm not sick. It's the body-fat-ratio issue again, remember? I just can't stay fighting-fit and maintain enough body fat to keep this damned thing regular." In fact she'd gone almost two months without menstruating before it'd decided to show back up again today. They were going to be late, but it was going to be her fault.

Niki shut the bathroom door neatly in Cal's face. He was still trailing her, with a peculiar mixture of concern and revulsion on his features. It was endearing, in a way. Apparently any of her blood outside of her body made him fret, even if he was as period-shy as any other male. Stereotypical, what for all she'd tried to acclimate him to it. She rummaged in the cabinet for the appropriate supplies.

"Cal! Did you move my cup?"

"Oh hell fucking no I did not! I wouldn't touch that thing if you paid me!" Cal hollered back. Niki snorted and went back to looking. Ah, it was hidden behind the first-aid kit, of course. Figured that would see more use in their lives...

Properly attired again, Niki went to dump her stained clothes in the hamper. Cal's nose wrinkled up sharply as she passed him, and he sneezed. She shook her head, and came back into the kitchen to find Cal had set a cup of raspberry leaf tea brewing for her, and had gotten out the ibuprofen. Niki smiled, hugged him, and straightened his shirt. Cal fussed at her, grumpily, but he was a good little brother and endured it with only token protests.

"Yeah, whatever, Mom, we're gonna be late."

"I am aware." Niki downed the ibuprofen on the counter and shoved the bottle in her pocket. She was going to need it. She and her uterus were not on very polite terms when it came to hormonal swings and bleeding. She picked up the cup of tea. "Thank you, Cal. Let's go."

Cal nodded, flashed her a brief smile, and went to open the door for her.

* * *

Random note: Cal calls his sister Niki his "Amazon Mom."


	6. Ice and Starvation

**A/N: ** I do not own the Cal Leandros series or any of the characters! Death fic ahead, you have been warned. Very disturbing concepts.

I said: ...I have a _horrible_ idea. Tell me not to write it out.

My oblivious friends said: Write it please write it!

I made three people cry and my friends who had not known me long enough to _already_ know this learned that when I have a horrible idea, no, I really shouldn't write it.

* * *

"Niko. Niko?"

Niko opened his eyes. He was flat on the floor in the middle of his third-grade math class and everyone was leaning over him. He blinked, and swallowed thickly. "What happened?"

"You passed out." Miss Smith was frowning at him. "Are you sick, Niko?"

Niko shook his head, and took a deep breath. he sat up slowly, feeling dizzy and shaky. "No'm," he managed, and tried to not sound like he was sick. He was okay. They'd have lunch after math class and he'd feel better after he'd eaten. There'd only been enough cereal this morning to feed Cal breakfast. Sophia was in jail, again, and Niko hadn't been able to bribe anyone into paying bail on her yet. He certainly couldn't do it.

"Are you sure, Niko?" Miss Smith asked again, and she stayed crouched on the floor as he levered himself into his seat.

"Yes'm," he answered, and if he was short with the answer, well, he was feeling sickish and swallowing against the ache in the pit of his stomach.

She frowned deeply, but got to her feet and resumed teaching. Niko found his concentration slipping for the rest of class, and he couldn't bring himself to eat all of his lunch. He was hungry, but his stomach felt uneasy. He was glad to see Cal ate everything on his plate, though. He wished he could feed Cal that much later, but money was so tight he had just enough for Sophia's bail, just enough for a bribe, and just enough for another grocery run. He'd go tonight, but it wouldn't give them much. Without Sophia earning money, well...

Niko tugged at the hem of his shirt and was surprised to find his jeans were loose. Well, that was puzzling. Most of the time his clothes were getting too small. Maybe he'd lost some weight, with not eating as much lately. He was fairly sure Cal had - Cal's face looked thinner. Niko vowed to stretch the money he had as far as it'd go. Cal needed to eat.

As he and Cal walked home from school, he looked up at the clouded, heavy sky. Cal sneezed beside him. "Smells like snow, Nik," he reported, kicking a crusty icy lump of snow along the edge of the road.

"Does it? We'll have to look at the news tonight," Niko answered, without much interest, trying to add up a grocery list in his head. He kept losing track of the figures. He was tired - maybe he'd see if he could coax Cal into a nap, after homework.

Home for the past month had been a battered trailer on the edge of town, set back from the grey slag unpainted road. The mailbox was crooked and dead weeds lank along the driveway. Niko unlocked the door, fed Cal the last of the crackers and some water, and set them up for homework. Cal didn't have a lot, only in preschool, but Niko had some in every subject this time. He settled down to History, something he really liked.

He woke up to Cal calling his name and shaking him. Niko opened gritty eyes and blinked up at Cal, puzzled. He was on the kitchen floor, and Cal's grey eyes were wide in the dim light.

"Cal? Why'd you turn the lights off?"

"I didn't!" Cal exclaimed. "They went off! Nik, you felled down."

"I did?" Niko sat up, slowly. He felt distinctly dizzy, and for a moment thought he might not be able to get up. The moment and the fear passed, and he looked around the darkened kitchen. The wind was whining around the edges of the trailer - the loose aluminum roofing on the corner was creaking and shrieking. "When was that?"

Cal popped his thumb in his mouth. Niko reached out automatically and removed it. "Stop that."

Cal wrinkled up his face and crossed his arms. "Just now. You went asleep an' the lights went out an' then you felled down."

"Oh." Niko got to his feet, and wobbled, but crossed to the window. He was dismayed to find it was whirling snow and blackness outside. "Cal! It's storming!"

"Uh-huh." Cal pattered after Niko and clutched at his jeans, which slid down a little. Niko hitched them up again. "Said it smelled like snow," he pointed out, and reached up with little hands. Niko automatically reached down to pick him up. To both's astonishment, he fell over backwards instead, instinctively pulling Cal close. Cal shrilled a yelp and clutched, and they blinked at one another in bewildered fright.

"Sick?" Cal asked, and patted his forehead.

"No?" Niko didn't think so. He hadn't thrown up. He realized, with alarm, the storm meant he couldn't get to the store tonight. And even if he had, it would have been closed. He swallowed the thin cold tendrils of fear and the constant ache of hunger. He'd go in the morning, even if it meant being late to school. He only had a small tin of ravolis to feed Cal, and the very last of the juice. So he fed Cal, and they brushed their teeth, and Niko tried to find all the blankets. With the power gone out, it was going to get so very, very cold. He and Cal made a nest, and went to sleep.

The fact that the storm was still going in the morning was not a fact that Niko liked. And the fact that he'd nearly passed out again was not one he liked, either. He'd spent the night shivering and cold, though Cal had been warm enough. He'd made sure of that.

Niko tried to get Cal to settle down and read a book with him, but Cal was hungry and wouldn't be still. He wanted to play. Niko didn't want to play; he was tired and dizzy and cold. But he played a little while, to make Cal happy, and Cal curled up with him and they read a little of The Hobbit. Niko dropped off into an uneasy sleep. Cal kept fidgeting. Niko hoped the storm would stop soon.

Niko slept uneasily, and the howling of the winds turned into moans, and he was hungry. He was so hungry. Cal was hungry now too, but there was nothing to eat but snow. It didn't help.

The whiteness of the snow settled into rising silence.

Niko did not hear the quieting of the storm.

And when Cal tried to wake him, he would not stir.

It was a day later when the county workers broke the away the snow, and the four year old met them at the door with bloody lips and solemn grey eyes.


	7. Powers That Be

**A/N:** I don't own the Cal Leandros series, or the characters!

The previous chapter was partially inspired by the story of the Donner Party and also by the 1972 Andes flight disaster. Both are historical accounts of great tragedy and courage. Also cannibalism - yes, Cal did start eating Niko. How's that for nice thoughts to take to bed?

On a lighter note!

This was totally a random crack drabble, but it makes _so much sense_. Suddenly, everything is explained.

* * *

"These creatures feed on psychic energy." Robin explained, as we entered the warehouse. "As none of us have any talent, they'll no doubt remain sleeping."

"Great. Makes it easier to kill the giant bats," I griped. It wasn't that I wasn't happy to be on a hunt. And it wasn't that I particularly minded Goodfellow's prattle: for once he was being useful and informative. No, I was just nursing the migraine from Hell after having been clocked in the head with a barstool in last night's brawl. The fight had been good. The headache sucked balls.

Niko ghosted along behind us both, silent but watchful. When Robin halted and pointed up to the dim rafters, Niko's hand touched my shoulder lightly. Robin was silently counting. A good twenty dark lumps hanging from the rafters like fatal plump fruit, fur blood red and leathery wings folded close. They were about the size of a large toddler. Great. I drew my gun and took aim.

Niko pulled out a throwing knife.

Twenty heads snapped up in perfect synchronicity, and in unison the whole flock flung itself right at Niko, ignoring me and Goodfellow. I started shooting on reflex alone, but I caught the way Niko's eyes widened briefly with surprise. Robin drew his sword and leapt into the fray, but I'd already dropped three and Niko had dropped two on the wing and had his sword out to slice a third in two. But they were all trying to swarm _him_, not me or Robin. Practically blind to us, which made it easier to pick them off. I got closer, changed angles so I wouldn't risk hitting Niko or Robin with a stray ricochet. It took us about ten minutes, actually.

We stood for a moment in the sudden stillness. Robin and I stared at Niko.

Niko wiped down his katana, sheathed it, and wordlessly moved to retrieve his knives. Robin stepped in front of him.

"Niko. Are you a psychic?" he asked, incredulous.

I knew the answer. It was no. Niko was many things - ninja, big brother, surrogate mom, kick ass vegetarian Zen master - but psychic he was not. How did I know? He was my brother. That, and I felt damn sure he would have told me about it.

"I'm not," Niko demurred, pausing briefly before he flowed around Robin and knelt to pull a silver knife free.

"Niko. They only feed on psychic energy. You saw how they ignored us. You must have something..." Robin trailed off, uncertain. That didn't happen too damn often.

"Perhaps it's something from Sophia," Niko suggested, but it was a flimsy excuse and Robin and I saw right through it in an instant. If that had been true, the bats would have been swarming me, too. Niko was resolutely blank-faced.

"Niko." Robin was firm again.

Niko picked up his last blade and stood. He looked at me and tipped his head in a gesture of surrender...and apology. "Not here," he sighed, resigned.

Well. I was shocked. And a little stung. I felt like this was something Niko might have mentioned before now. I mean, hell, that's a pretty big thing! I wondered if George had known, or if this was new, and what Promise knew about it. Niko held his silence until we were settled in Robin's apartment. Niko wrapped his hands around a cup of steaming tea and stared contemplatively into its depths. He took a deep breath at last, sighed it out, and nodded.

"Sophia had some very small psychic talent," he began. "Not in her fortune-telling. That was all fraudulent. But she had dreams of the far future - she never really told me that. I can't remember where I heard it...but it was before you." He nodded to me. Niko's life, divided up into BC and AC. Before Cal, After Cal. Jesus that was a sucky way to measure time.

"And you have something of the same?" Robin prompted.

"No. I have something that's not very useful to anyone but me." Niko shrugged. "I don't know the future or dream true. It's more...very good instincts." He sipped his tea.

I was damn curious now. "Like what?" I asked.

Niko glanced at me, and nodded. "Such as whether someone's human or not. If they're lying or not. I'm not always right - but sometimes there is no trigger to read, just a hunch. Very imprecise." He grimaced faintly. Niko disliked imprecise. "I also know where everyone is in a room. I don't have to look. I can also find small items if I really want to. Lastly, it's how I know where I need to be in a fight. An extra edge to all the training."

"So that's why you always know where the remote is," I said, after a moment.

Niko nodded. "And your keys," he said, dryly, but that tone was a Niko-smile. A gentle jab for me.

Robin sat back in his chair, running his hand through his curly hair. "Well. That's unexpected."

Niko shook his head. "It's not useful, as I said, to anyone but myself."

"But getting ready to fight woke them up," Robin mused. "So you have an identifiable aura, at least when you're fighting. So that does qualify you as a psychic, if a very minor one."

Niko sipped his tea. I could tell it meant very little to him, one way or the other, what Robin labeled him. Psychic or no, it changed nothing. "You never told me you were psychic," I accused, and kicked at his ankle.

He promptly pinned my foot to the floor. "As often as you accused me of having eyes in the back of my head..." He smirked briefly at me.

That was true. And he was right, in that quiet little comment. What did it matter? It didn't change anything. Though I was damn sure going to hide his keys when we got home and see if he could find them again.


	8. Useless

**A/N:** I do not own the Cal Leandros series or the song used here.

So a friend of mine showed me this writing prompt and said "you should put Niko up here for utter cracky reasons." I went and looked..."_AU, your character is now a hooker or a customer."_

Because I was drunk on lack of sleep and too much studying, I instantly conjured the mental image of Niko in skin-tight leather pants. And it is not very cracky at all - it's an angst-ridden dystopia because I can't write happy things. This is far more abstract and conjectural than usual, and just plain weird and sad. **Warnings** for **implied male/male sex, dubious consent, dubious ages,** and Niko in tight leather pants.

It turned out to be a pair of short bookend ficlets. I'm posting them both together for ya'lls angst-fulfillment.

* * *

Niko stifled a yawn and looked down the street again.

Hey. Curly there was looking.

Niko canted a hip out and tipped his head. They called it coy but he called it stupid; whatever the name, it got results. Curly started his way. Niko put on a half-smile, because he wasn't cut out for simpering and sweets and he knew it. He'd been having a good night so far. Here was to hoping it stayed that way. From the cut of Curly's suit in the slick amber of the streetlights, though, he was a high-roller, expensive with good tastes.

Which didn't explain why he was on this particular street looking for hookers, but Niko wasn't going to poke that mystery until after he got paid.

Black and black, leather pants and a shirt that pulled up a little too high, a little too tight. Long blonde ponytail, pulled casually over a shoulder, dark skin and pale eyes and pale hair, and Niko watched the stranger come to him with heavy-lidded eyes.

Thank goodness he didn't smell like cigarette smoke, only expensive cologne and good clean soap. "Evening."

A kind voice, and Niko tugged at a long, long lock of hair. "Evening. Looking for something?" No sultry purr, no abashed simper...just low and promising. Niko knew what worked for him, a little too tall and a little to handsome to be working on the streets.

"I think I found it." Curly grinned. "Take a ride with me?"

Uh-oh. Niko's smile dropped like a slippery glass. "How about no." The hand hooked casually in his pocket shifted. He had a knife and he would use it if he had to. Shame, the night had been going so well.

"Hey, easy." Curly raised his hands in a surrendering gesture, smile broad and bright, eyes green as green. "I just don't like the hotels around here. I'll pay extra if you want."

Extra did not make up for dead and strangled or kidnapped and sold off into harsher slavery by some bold-faced pervert. Extra would get him rent and meds that were badly, badly needed. Niko hesitated, and bit his lip. He couldn't really afford to turn down extra, but he definitely couldn't afford ending up dead. Curly's smile was kind, and he was clean, and he was waiting very patiently.

"No trouble, see? I'm just looking for some company tonight, and I'd like to do it somewhere free of vermin." Curly shrugged, carelessly. "I'll pay double."

Ouch. Niko nodded, reluctantly. He didn't like it but double was...well, after his pimp took the cut there might be enough left and he might break even this week. Breaking even was a dream, even in New York City, where tastes ran to every shade of skin and colour of fashion and species. Niko didn't manage it often enough, and he owed money and favors in too many places to turn that down. Curly smiled, and offered out an arm. Niko raised both eyebrows, switched the heavy fall of his ponytail over his shoulder, and set a hand in the crook of the man's elbow. They walked.

They took a cab to an address Niko barely knew, and he sat close while Curly's hand wandered over his leatherclad knee, stroking partway up his thigh and back down again. It was nicer than usual, at least, and Niko only hoped he wasn't going to end up eaten or dumped out dead with the trash. His thoughts scattered when Curly said, "You can call me Rob."

"Niko," he returned, and offered a half-smile.

Curly - Rob - lifted that long-fingered hand from his knee and lightly touched the high proud arch of his cheekbone. Niko didn't flinch and steeled himself.

The cab pulled over, and Curly shook his head as he got out. Niko followed, gracefully, and raised an eyebrow at the apartment building. So, back to Curl...Rob's home, eh? He let Rob's hand settle in the small of his back and walked with him, measuring the pace, the shape, the feel of the other man. He was being very respectful, better than most of Niko's tricks. Maybe he wouldn't turn out to be a psycho in disguise. Up to the penthouse at the  
very top, and it was clean and quiet and dark when Rob unlocked the door, turning the lights on. He gestured Niko in, and Niko went, pausing for better direction, looking around the hall with curiosity. If that painting was real, then Rob here was loaded and Niko was getting a good night's work.

Rob locked the door again, and stepped up beside him. Niko leaned a little into the hand that touched his hip, a thumb following the narrow arch of his hipbone. He gave Rob a heavy-lidded look, and licked his lips. Rob inhaled, as if to speak, then said nothing, green gaze meeting Niko's steadily. He reached up and brushed a thumb over Niko's lips. Niko closed his eyes, told his brain to shut down already so he could do what he had to, and moved to take that thumb into his mouth.

Rob pulled his hand away and Niko blinked, startled wary. He'd read that wrong, then? No, Rob was still looking at him with that particular intensity in his green green eyes.

"I'm being a poor host," Rob said, but there was a husky undertone to it. Niko was by now familiar with lust in all its forms. "Would you care for a drink?"

It made Niko want to laugh, but he didn't. Perhaps it was the worst when they tried to be kind. "Thank you, but I'm not thirsty." Too many chances of drugs or poison or even just simple drunkenness, and Niko didn't want to stretch this out any longer than he had to. Some hookers enjoyed their jobs. Niko was just doing what he had to.

Rob smiled, ruefully. "I don't think I could be that patient, anyway." He stepped closer, and Niko closed his eyes under the expected kiss. Oddly soft and gentle, it was, and Rob at least knew what he was doing with that tongue. He tasted clean and rich and wild, and a small part of Niko decided maybe it wouldn't be as awful as most nights, tonight. Rob's hand tangled in Niko's ponytail, and he let it, tipped his head compliantly to the pull.

"This way," Rob whispered aginst Niko's lips, and slipped an arm around his waist. Down the hall and through a door - a softly-lit bedroom lavish in taste and comfort. Clean indeed, and this time it was Niko who turned and started the kiss, doing his job.

Just a job, and Niko told his feelings to shut up and go away.

Pride couldn't feed a younger brother and dignity couldn't buy medication.

Niko swallowed them down, bitter and cold, and started working at the buttons of Rob's fine silk button-up. The fabric wanted to catch on his calloused fingers. Rob murmured something, used a single finger to tip his face just so, and kissed him solidly. Well, at least someone knew exactly what they wanted. It made it all easier when they did, Niko half- thought to himself, letting thought and sight and himself go, boxed up and cold in a place no-one could touch. His body was one thing, his mind another. He survived this way and all was well.

Until Rob pulled him down atop him on the bed, brushed back the long loose fall of gold, touched his cheek and called him softly, solemnly, and earnestly by name.

Kindness was the worst, and Niko didn't want it.

Rob gave it to him anyway, said nothing when eyeliner and rouge smeared under tears, and laid curled against Niko's back when it was done with. A single finger teased the tiny gold stud in Niko's left earlobe.

"I want to help you."

"You don't know me."

"I do," said Rob, and Niko shut his eyes and shivered. Somehow, he thought Rob might be right, telling the truth in some impossible way. "Tell me what you need." An open-mouthed kiss against his spine, burning like an offering to something sacred.

Niko did not need this. Rob was probably some kind of crazy, and Niko still wasn't sure he wasn't going to end up dead.

"Anti-retrovirals and toothpaste," Niko said instead, because what did he have to lose anymore? "And the new Marvel comic that came out this week."

How absurd, but Rob didn't laugh, his leg thrown over Niko's, a palm pressed over his heart. "The medication...for you?"

"No. My little brother. He's sick." Always had been, only now it was getting worse and worse and Niko had resorted to every desperate measure he knew. And now at last to this, naked in a stranger's bed with hickies dotted down his throat and fading handprints on his hips. Rob kissed the nape of his neck again, and Niko felt tears hot under his lashes.

"Tell me the name. I'll get it for you. And anything else you need, Niko."

It was a reverent promise, and Niko wanted to believe it.

* * *

_My dying prayer, sealed in a scream_  
_Unwelcome, and a conscious dream_  
_I am your whore, without a name_  
_I climb to fall, to begin again, to begin again..._  
-"Useless," Imogen Heap

* * *

Restless, Robin walked the streets. He was lonely for company, and not the sexual kind either. He could have that in spades. But he wanted someone to talk to, a companion, and tonight none of the ones that tentatively held that position appealed. Lost in memories, he walked the city streets, thinking of older days and friends he'd once had.

He paused and looked up at one of the figures lounging in the lamplight; the pose was familiar, a whore's come-hither in any sex.

And then the young man looked at him, and Robin saw his face clearly.

For one breathless eternity, Robin was thousands of years younger, tasting the heat and dust of the battlefield, as a proud warrior prince drove his soldiers into a fighting fury with a voice that could be heard for a mile.

Achilles, bright and fiery and brilliant, born again into a dirty city night and swaying himself into a street-walker's blatant pose of offering.

Robin felt sick at the injustice. That one had been born for greatness, not poverty and hard use and the dead-tired weariness behind those clear grey eyes. Irresistibly, Robin moved closer, watched the grey eyes size him up, and found the other almost impossible to age; the clean lines of his body and musculature spoke of youth, but the grey eyes in the quiet face were ancient and wise. He smiled a vacant welcome, and Robin, heart aching with loneliness and loss, returned it.

"Evening."

A long-boned hand pulled at the magnificent ponytail, a showy move. A fall of gold straight to his hips, pulled all over one shoulder. "Evening," he returned, in a clear quiet voice, bass and lovely. "Looking for something?"

Oh, he had no idea. Robin smiled helplessly. "I think I found it." Impulse bit at him, the growing desire to take this one he knew so well far away from this. "Take a ride with me?"

The smile vanished so fast Robin half-expected to hear it shatter on the sidewalk; the blonde shifted his weight minutely, and Robin's heart ached anew. A warrior all the way through, even if he didn't know it. Robin smiled softly, friendly, and raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, easy. I just don't like the hotels around here," he lied, smoothly. A thought occurred to him. "I'll pay extra if you want."

That bought him a hesitation, and the lightly-rouged lower lip blanched as it was bitten. Calculation and and need in those grey eyes, rimmed with sooty black liner. Made up and yet without need for it; oh it was classic and clean, his profile was, and every ideal of beauty from any ancient philosopher was in him. Robin swallowed, thickly. "No trouble, see?" he soothed. "I'm just looking for some company tonight, and I'd like to do it somewhere free of vermin." He shrugged, made it careless, hiding his emotions and torn-up heart. "I'll pay double."

That cinched it. Another moment of wavering, and the blonde nodded. He moved closer, and Robin smiled with relief and offered his arm. That got a jump of brows, skeptical, but something in the young face warmed and a calloused hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. Robin oriented himself - he'd walked a long, long way tonight - and flagged a cab. He gave his home address, and let the young man sit close, bodies touching, heat shared between them. Robin reached out, and irresistibly laid a hand on the other's knee, smoothing the leather, feeling the flesh beneath.

"You can call me Rob." He watched grey eyes jump to him, measure, and find uncertainty.

"Niko." A half smile empty of meaning.

He was proud and altogether lovely, a prince among men, and how little would these mortals recognize it. Robin reached up and reverently stroked the high proud arch of a cheekbone. Blonde lashes fluttered shut over grey - enduring, not accepting. Robin let his hand fall away and shook his head as the cab stopped and he got out. How could no-one see that? Their last incarnation had been some time ago, and Robin wondered where the other was. Brother, cousin, lover? Hopefully not out on the streets, too, but given Achilles' clinging devotion to Patroclus, he doubted that would have been allowed.

When he slipped a hand to the small of Niko's back, it was allowed and Niko bent to it, compliant. Robin wondered how much actual desire was there, and how much necessity. He walked without fear, head held high, and Robin wondered again how no-one could see the nobility in him. He unlocked the door to his home and gestured Niko in, flicking on the lights with rattling keys in hand. He watched Niko take everything in, assessing and aware. When Robin stepped closer, though, a hand on a narrow hip, Niko's eyes went heavy and his body-language inviting; he licked his lips and Robin's gaze tracked the motion, irresistibly.

He reached up and touched those damp lips, and discovered the dividing line; the grey eyes went flat and cold the instant before they were closed, and it was like a stab to Robin's heart. He dropped his hand, and the grey eyes flashed open again, wary but present.

"I'm being a poor host," Robin apologized, breathless. "Would you care for a drink?"

Bleak amusement, hurt, and a smile that was almost grateful instead of sexy. "Thank you, but I'm not thirsty." Resignation, too, and Robin knew then how he could get in and make this work. He smiled ruefully.

"I don't think I could be that patient anyway," he said, gently, and leaned in for a kiss. It was practiced both of them, and Niko tasted like mint gum and stale sugar, sweet and cool and focused like a sunbeam through glass. There was nothing in him that could ever be average or content with it, and Robin's hand rose to curl in the freefall of hair. He pulled back, breathed the cool air, and whispered, "This way," lips brushing, breath shared between them.

His bedroom wasn't far, and Niko tucked so perfectly up against his side. Robin pushed the door shut, and Niko turned to him this time, but the eyes were gone empty again and Robin's heart wept for it. He murmured Niko's name, as the other started at the buttons of his shirt, then simply used a finger to tip his head up and kiss him like he was meant to be kissed - cherished, loved, worshiped. He pulled the holder out of Niko's hair and watched the cascade fall.

The slow and awkward dance of removing clothes, and Niko's face was too empty. Robin pulled him gently to the bed, chest-to-chest and face-to-face, and pushed away the obscuring hair, fingertips tracing that beautiful face with all the reverence of an artist. He called Niko's name, oh-so-gently, and saw the reluctance, the dismay, and the aching hurting heart that was the truth. Robin drew him back, drew him down, and poured upon him devotion and desire. He kissed away the fall of tears, and gave pleasure as only he knew how.

They laid spent upon the covers, and Niko was still in his arms, weary and accepting. There was a tiny gold stud in his left earlobe - Robin touched it gently.

"I want to help you," he said.

"You don't know me," Niko returned, but it was an empty, token protest.

Robin knew him. Knew him inside and out and from the past to the present. "I do," he promised, and Niko shivered, leaning back against him with unconscious trust. "Tell me what you need." Robin pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the nape of his neck, the motion reverent as any worship.

"Anti-retrovirals and toothpaste," was the tired, helpless answer. "And the new Marvel comic that came out this week."

Heavy pharmaceuticals and mundane everyday life, and Robin frowned. "The medication...for you?"

"No. My little brother. He's sick." Robin's heart ached - a short life, full of pain and worry, if medication for HIV/AIDs was needed. Robin kissed the bare vulnerable nape of that neck again, and mourned for the short days of the mortals he knew and loved.

"Tell me the name. I'll get it for you," he promised, low and fervent. "And anything else you need, Niko."

Anything and everything he could, to help this one he loved so much.


	9. Such Selfish Prayers

**A/N:** I do not own the Cal Leandros characters! I do not own the song lyrics that start this piece!

I was highly disappointed that Niko's "vampire nookie" did not involve any fangs or blood. So I decided to remedy that. Yes...I'm a diehard Anne Rice fan, and vampires should be vampires. Sheesh. So!

I give you...vampire nookie, the way it should be!

Minus any actual porn. But they are naked?

* * *

_Spilled milk tears, I did this for you  
__Bending over the idol, the black and the blue  
__The sweetest submission, drinking in  
__The wine, the women, the bedroom hymns..._

_And this is his body, this is his blood  
__Such selfish prayers, I can't get enough  
__This is his body, this is his love  
__Such selfish prayers, I can't get enough  
_-"Bedroom Hymns," Florence + the Machine

* * *

Dizzily, Niko decided it was the abrupt lack of blood to his brain that was making him feel so good.

Either that, or the post-orgasm rush of hormones.

….that last was most likely, he decided, one hand still curled at the back of Promise's neck as she bent over him with her fangs fastened deeply into his throat. One the other side of his neck, her fingers pressed like iron, holding him imprisoned. Niko wasn't sure how much blood she had taken - certainly not enough to make him dizzy yet, his heart thundering triple-time as his brain reported not enough blood was getting up there. Not that was...probably her fingers, her hungry mouth, the rough-edged pain of_ suck_ that burned all the way down to his toes, and the room faded in and out of darkness.

And then with a wrench she dislodged herself, licked his burning throat hotly, and sat back, her hand slithering away.

Niko stared up at her as the room slowly stopped eddying in huge ponderous circles; her eyes were starless black, even the whites, and there was blood glistening red on her pale lips, so red it was surreal. Niko didn't think he could move, only stare at her, his body lax against the sheets and skin fever-warm from lovemaking and the burn of the bite at his throat. She bent and kissed him; it tasted overwhelmingly of blood and spice. Cinnamon, Niko thought hazily, that was it, and shut his eyes in quiet bliss. It was a very thorough kiss, but slow, languorous. Pleasure suffused him and he laid limp under her, arms spread like a sacrifice upon an altar.

When she rose again, her eyes were her own; pupils blown, violet the thinnest ring against the black.

Niko's lips were burning-numb, like his throat. He licked them experimentally, slowly. Yes, numb.

"Niko...I...I'm sorry," Promised breathed, and the lines of her beautiful naked body were tense. "I...for a moment I didn't think I'd be able to stop."

Niko very nearly asked her _what did it matter_ but decided that was odd, floaty bliss talking. He found himself smiling, soft and open, lips numb and the taste of his own blood in his mouth. "Venom?" he asked instead, carefully, trying to make his brain focus.

"...yes." Promise touched his lips gently. Niko closed his eyes, and nearly purred under the touch. It felt good. Promise's naked skin against his felt good. "Oh Niko, love, I'm -"

Niko brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, and she quieted. He could move, it was just...oddly disconnected, like the whole of him was somehow numb, except he really felt so good he couldn't be numb. Not at all. He wrapped his arms around her back, under the glorious fall of her unbound hair, and after a moment she lowered herself to lay chest-to-chest with him. He groaned slightly as she shifted her hips, untucked her legs to stretch them out with his. She felt so good, every slender alabaster curve pressed against him, and he traced idle circles on her shoulderblade as she laid her head under his chin.

It took about fifteen minutes for his lips to stop feeling numb and instead go pin-prick-tingly. Niko still felt so relaxed he didn't think he wanted to move ever again.

But he had a point to make, and guilt to wipe away. He lifted a hand. Promise lifted her head and rose on an elbow. Niko smiled at her, and traced the bare curve of her shoulder before very lightly touching the fading mark at the top of her breast.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize it would...have such an effect on you. I'll be more careful in the future." Niko tried to be a considerate lover, but the way she'd shifted his hips had taken him by surprise and he'd bitten her at the height of his passion. It was an old habit, one meant to stifle a cry lest curious young ears hear; that felt like a lifetime ago, the furious drive of teenage hormones and hot summer nights.

"No. I...the fault lies with me, I think." Still her pupils were blown. She was gorgeous.

"I think I startled you first, my love." He palmed the curve of her breast. "The fault is mine. And you did not hurt me." He didn't feel hurt, still soaking in the postcoital afterglow.

"But I could've," she breathed, fright and guilt together in her tone. "Oh Niko, I...the taste of it. I haven't drunk human blood for so long, and the taste...I almost couldn't stop."

"But you did," Niko pointed out.

She bit her lip. "I did." She considered him a moment. "Niko...are you _high_?" This time instead of guilty, she sounded scandalized.

Niko thought about it, realized he was still smiling, and decided, "I think so."

After a moment, she put her head down again on his chest. At first he thought she was shivering, but then he realized she was laughing. After a moment, she lifted her head, and her eyes were human again, the guilt faded away, pupils normal. Niko smiled, tangled a gentle hand in her hair, and pulled her down for a kiss. She giggled against his lips, and he drank in her laughter, held her close, and decided this was heaven itself.

"An immunity. You have an immunity to the poison," she whispered, noses touching, lips brushing.

"So it would seem. Should my heart have stopped by now?" he queried, stroking her tiger-striped hair. The waves curled gently around his fingers.

"No, paralyzed and not breathing." She nuzzled her lips against his cheek. "But I...I cannot risk it again. I do not...I don't know if I could stop myself again. You...I cannot describe to you the taste of blood. It is...like a drug. A very powerful drug, and a very little is not enough."

"I think," Niko told her, calmly, certain and sure in his heart of hearts, "That you underestimate yourself." When she drew back to meet his gaze, he added, closing his eyes, "I trust you."

The whisper made her tremble.

She sank down and kissed him into the sheets, and Niko gave her everything he had.


End file.
